


A Long Life

by TeddyTR



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-06
Updated: 2011-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:59:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddyTR/pseuds/TeddyTR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The water splashed. It was grey and ice cold. John shivered. Somewhere in his subconscious he conceited the pain, but it was irrelevant. Everything was. John concentrated on only one thing. Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Life

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, it's been a while, isn't it? Well, this is a short, cuddly one, but I can assure my dear readers that a bigger project is on it's way! Until then, please have a snack. :)

The water splashed as it tried to escape John’s feet. It was grey and ice cold, typical London-puddle. John shivered. The cold crept under his clothes, like tiny claws grabbing into his skin. Somewhere in his subconscious he conceited the pain, but it was irrelevant. Everything was. John concentrated on only one thing and that was catching up to Sherlock and the possibly armed criminal they were chasing in the pouring rain.

 

The stormy rain started in the morning. John thought it might be a good ‘let’s stay inside, drink hot tea and watch the rain’ day. _What a ridiculous thing to think,_ he fumed later, while dashing trough the city.

 

Sherlock found the trace of their criminal of the week, so they went to track it down. They searched for hours. They found him. He ran. Sherlock ran. John _tried_ to run. He fell back quickly, as his shoulder chose that day and that moment to voice its disapproval of the cold, the wetness and the exercise. Not so many steps later it was throbbing like hell, but John decided he couldn’t care less. He couldn’t let Sherlock go alone. Not because he thought the detective couldn’t manage, but because ‘manage’ in sherlockian meant ‘oh, just some cuts/bruises’ or ‘what, he only shot at me and it didn’t even hit a vital organ’. So John simply refused to let him _manage_.

 

The only problem was that he found it harder to catch up with every passing moment. As if every step stabbed a burning dagger into his shoulder. John clenched his teeth. No bloody shoulder would get a chance to stop him, when Sherlock might be facing a gun anytime soon.

 

They reached some vacant ware houses and the criminal started to take quick turns among the buildings. Sherlock followed him, disappearing behind walls from time to time. It was freaking John out so he pushed himself harder. At one turn, he slightly bumped into the corner of a house. His shoulder cried out and John almost did as well. But on the other side of the building he saw the man and Sherlock standing. He let out a hiss while observing the situation. His blood turned to ice (if it was possible for it to get even colder); he saw exactly what he was afraid of. A gun, pointed at Sherlock’s chest.

 

In barely a few seconds his gun was in his hands. Lifting it made black dots appear in front of him, but he ignored them. It was quite a distance, the blurred sight and the rain didn’t help aiming. Not as if he hadn’t been in a bad situation before. Truth to be told, he was used to circumstances far worse. But he faced them with a good shoulder back then. A small speck of anxiety stuck in John’s stomach, but there was no more time. If Sherlock gets shot, he will be the one to shoot him, not some damned punk from the street.

 

He pulled the trigger. The retort of the gun nearly made him faint. His arms fell down by his side as he staggered closer to see the result.

 

A figure whined on the asphalt, grabbing onto his leg. A taller one stared down at him. _Sherlock,_ John thought and relief washed over him. Sherlock looked half surprised half triumphant, but as he turned to John his expression changed abruptly. Firstly it was confusion, than (after a few seconds of deduction) it turned into horror. _That’s too much, I can’t look that bad,_ John thought before the edge of his vision started to get darker. He shook his head to get the control back. Sherlock was already on his way towards him.

 

“John!” he said and in the same moment police cars roared into the street. A second later Lestrade popped out one of them.

 

“Get him!” He gestured his men to arrest the bleeding fugitive.

 

“Sherlock! You really should have waited for us.”

 

“I-erm, yes.”

 

Lestrade thought for a moment that Sherlock seemed a bit disorientated, but decided it was not possible.

 

“Both of you are OK?”

 

“N-“

 

“Yes, no injuries,” John cut in. He was not going to lament about an idiotic shoulder wound which he got years ago. Sherlock stared at him with clear disagreement. Oh, but John was good at staring too. _Glaring,_ to be precise. And Sherlock had nothing to stand against it.

 

“Fine, we’re fine. And going. I mean we’re going.” Sherlock jabbered. Lestrade frowned.

 

“What, before the interrogation? I thought you wanted to-“

 

“Yes, but no. No, we… I have to… finish an experiment.”

 

“Can’t it wait?”

 

“No, no it’s vital that I… sit down and stay put for a while,” Sherlock said shooting meaningful looks at John, who continued glaring in return.

 

“Is everything alright?”

 

“Of course, perfect. Just a little stubborn.”

 

John wanted to stomp on Sherlock’s foot, but he had his focus on standing still, he was sure moving would cause a problem.

 

“Fine then, I guess.” Lestrade was clueless about what’s going on. Sherlock babbling was not out of ordinary, but Sherlock babbling incoherent nonsense was really something. But DI Lestrade had learnt long ago, that there are many things he could never understand.

 

 _Here we go,_ John readied himself for walking. It felt awful and the bloody rain was still falling as if it could get him any wetter than that. Before John could stagger with his step, he found a hard, yet gentle pressure behind his back. Sherlock supported him with his body, trying to make it look like he’s only invaded John’s personal space (which was a quite natural sight).  John couldn’t help smiling. Even with all the mocking and irritation, it was impossible not to adore this man.

 

Soon they were out of sight, so Sherlock could use his arm to hold John up.

 

“Damn it, John, don’t you do this again,” he hissed.

 

“Says who? You let him corner you! He could have shot you, you know. How many times have I told you not to- oh, god.” Getting into a cab, even with help, pushed the breath out of John.

 

“John, John, breathe, slowly. Hey, don’t faint!”

 

“’M not.” John pressed through his lips, but wasn’t so sure about it. He couldn’t remember a time when he tried his limits like this. _Of course,_ he thought, _before the wound, there were no limits, and after… until Sherlock there was nothing to try._

“We’re almost home.”  Sherlock soothed him. He looked anxious. John found it amusing. He surely wasn’t that bad. But even the Great Sherlock Holmes can get irrational; no one knew it better than his John Watson.

 

The stairs of 221B was another long struggle. Eventually John got to sit down on the couch. He sighed heavily. Sherlock rattled around the flat in a speed that might be considered as supernatural.

 

“Towels, dry clothes, hot water, there must be a blanket somewhere…” He half whispered to himself. He gathered everything in less than a minute.

 

“Change, John.”

 

 John sighed again and started to get rid of his clothes, which was nearly impossible without moving his left arm. Sherlock assisted him without a word. Halfway through the operation John froze.

 

“What is it?” Sherlock was alarmed instantly.

 

“You too.”

 

“I what?”

 

“Change please, you will catch a cold.”

 

Sherlock looked at John like he had said the stupidest thing in the world.

 

“John, it’s totally irrelevant now.”

 

“It’s not for me.”

 

Sherlock stayed still.

 

“Sherlock, at first I say ‘please’, but then I get my gun…”

 

“Argh, okay, don’t move. Wait, put this on.” He placed a towel soaked with hot water on his shoulder.  It felt like heaven. John let out a moan of pleasure as Sherlock disappeared into thin air. Some noise from upstairs, hasty steps and growling; two minutes later Sherlock was back beside John, his clothes all dry (a bit messier than usual though).

 

“Thanks.”

 

“How can I say no when you threaten me with a gun?”

 

John chuckled.

 

“So?” Sherlock continued. “What do you usually do at times like this?”

 

“Hm, well, I sedate myself with painkillers and wait for it to wear off.”

 

“You’re not serious, are you?”

 

“Why?”

 

“And you call yourself a doctor!”

 

“But-“

 

“I’m not going to stuff you with medicines, it’s not healthy.”

 

“Don’t _you_ tell me what’s healthy! You feed with nicotine patches!”

 

“That’s me, but _you_ should take care of yourself.”

 

“It makes no sense.”

 

“Of course it does. I need you to live a long life.”

 

 John’s eyes widened. His irritation was suddenly nowhere to find. “You’re an idiot.” He blurted out. Sherlock frowned.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I’m not living a long life without you, you have to stay with me. And to do that, you have to take care of yourself too.”

 

“Ah… now that you mention it, it makes sense.”

 

John snorted. “See? Idiot.”

 

He sighed. He was so cold and so tired.

 

“Come.” Sherlock helped a soft T-shirt on and changed the hot-watered towel. Then, he sat on the couch too and tucked himself and John under the blanket. John hissed as he lied down, but once he settled in Sherlock’s embrace, it was fine.

 

Sherlock slowly and smoothly massaged his shoulder. John even heard low humming through his chest. It was like a lullaby. John let his eyelids slide. On the border of sleeping he heard Sherlock saying ‘ _I think I’ll quit smoking’._ He smiled before a warm, gentle dream took over.

 


End file.
